When We Wake Up
by RavenWriter89
Summary: Bond decides to help Sherlock with the whole 'coming back from the dead' thing. Sequel to 'Everybody Needs a Hobby,' and set post-Skyfall and post-Reichenbach.


It was eight months later when Bond saw him again. Young Q was still charmingly arrogant and Mallory was shaping up to be a very shrewd boss. He had crossed a dozen time zones and the International Date Line three times. He had been shot at, stabbed, beaten, poisoned, and in one memorable instance, stapled.

He had kept himself busy.

Apparently, so had Sigerson.

A man linked with gunrunning who went by the name of Vichy had been killed near the Black Sea. He wasn't important enough to deal with directly, but they had kept an eye on him for when he lead them back to his superiors. A mere blip on the map, and easily forgotten about.

But then his associate turned up dead as well. A little investigation showed that they had money that had no origin. The banks were useless, having no name attached to the person who deposited it. Q, never one to be sticky about the rules, dug a bit deeper and discovered a shadow that extended over all of Europe, with tendrils reaching into the Middle East and Asia. The initial panic of how-the-hell-did-we-miss-this and how-long-has-it-been-going-on faded as Q explained that a lot of the connections were quite old, and the organization itself was dissolving due to lack of leadership.

"It was quite a story a few years ago," Q explained. "You might have missed it with all the dangerous wining and dining you were doing, but it was a media circus. Moriarty allowed himself to be caught, then was acquitted, _then_ said it was an elaborate hoax. Discredited a local hero as well, drove him to suicide. That detective, Mr. Holmes."

Bond paused. Ah. He remembered the debacle quite well; it had M in fits. And of course, the deaths of the two leading players in the drama were big news. Only one of whom was actually dead.

"_I have an objective. I have to stay dead until that's completed."_

Bond had known who Sigerson was within two minutes of talking to him, but hadn't known he had a vendetta on this scale. And he was taking it down, brick by brick. Bond decided he could use a little help.

With a request for Q to keep this private, he retroactively traced the deaths or imprisonment of each of the leading members of the organization. The earliest ones were sporadic, darting over the map with months stretching between them. But then they started to spiral inwards, and the time between then grew shorter. Bond noted with some amusement that the gunrunner was killed three days after that strange meeting in a Turkish bar.

By the time Q could predict both who and where the next target would be, it was half a year later. The organization was in tatters, with only a handful of operatives left. With Q's wry grin and a pen that doubled as a taser ("Bring it back!"), Bond set out for Germany. He was after an assassin.

Bond was walking through the rundown area of Munich heading for a particular apartment building when he took note of the man walking in front of him. It was Sigerson, Bond was certain of it. Tall and still lanky, and he had allowed his hair to grow out again. Sigerson was on the hunt as well. Bond quickly changed direction and took a longer route to the building to avoid him.

Up four flights, and Bond went up to door 416. It was slightly ajar already, and he listened to the voices instead. Sigerson was pretending to be a low-grade pimp and negotiating prices with an unfamiliar voice. It had a harsh British accent, and Bond knew that this was the target, one Sebastian Moran. Bond waited to make his move as the conversation devolved into an argument. At the sound of the first punch, Bond pushed through the door.

Sigerson was stumbling back from a hit to the face but was recovering. Not fast enough, as Moran was already reaching into the holster at his side. He was momentarily distracted as he saw Bond, and it was just the opening he needed at he pulled out the taser pen and jabbed it into Moran's ribs. He went down hard and as Bond checked him for weapons, Sigerson was already securing his hands with zip ties. Moran struggled against them, so Sigerson kicked him in the head. He fell limp against the floor.

Then it was the two of them standing over an unconscious body. "I didn't expect to see you again," Sigerson said. His eyes flicked over Bond.

"Nor did I. Funny how things work out."

"You're back on active duty." Sigerson smirked. "Told you."

"Congratulations, I'm no longer enjoying the pleasures of being dead. What about you?"

"There was never any pleasure in it."

Bond cocked his head. He didn't know if Sigerson realized that he had given him the perfect opening, but he refrained from taking it just yet. Sigerson was a minefield, cutting his way through most of Europe in order to protect a life back home, rather than disappearing into the ether as Bond had done. His mission was vengeance, driven by emotion even if it was guided by cold intellect. He was a dangerous and desperate man.

Bond had always played with fire.

"I could change that," he said. It was a casual offer, no promise or obligation in it. But Bond made a living out of being able to read people and exploiting their weaknesses, and he was very good at it. He had read the papers, knew the connections. He knew why Sigerson was fighting so hard to destroy this organization. It bore a similar appearance to Bond himself, right down to the bullet wound in his shoulder. Sigerson's eyes narrowed. It wasn't exploitation if he saw it coming, Bond told himself. He flipped the pen towards him. "Here. An offering of goodwill."

Sigerson pocketed the pen and glanced down at Moran. "There'll be a team coming soon to collect him. I won't be expected to debrief until tomorrow."

Bond couldn't help but smile at that one. Now he knew Sigerson was doing it deliberately. "By the state of your clothes and your cover story, I assume you're living in some hovel. Tell your team to clean it out for you. The Hotel Koenigshof would suit you much better." Bond turned and walked out of the apartment. He wanted there to be no doubt that Sigerson was free to make whatever choice he wanted. He heard the chime of a mobile and Sigerson's footsteps behind him.

"My intel says that Moran was the last one with any sway. The rest are just cockroaches scattering from the light," Sigerson said.

"And who is your 'intel'?" Bond asked. "Anyone I know? It'd be easier if our associates knew not to shoot each other on sight when they come to clean up."

"It'll be fine," Sigerson said, and left it at that.

They walked back to the Koenigshof and Sigerson scoffed at the opulence of it. "Nothing but the best for Her Majesty's finest," he said as he went to the hotel room window. Bond watched as the years of hiding and intrigue fell away from him, allowing the haughty, controlled, dispassionate creature to emerge.

Bond offered him a glass of scotch. "Bathroom's through there. It's probably been quite a while since you had a chance to relax. Wash up; there should be everything you need in there."

Sigerson looked torn between being annoyed at the coddling and being grateful for the offer. He brought the glass to his nose and took a small sip. He was checking for drugs, a habit that Bond recognized in himself. Satisfied, or perhaps liking the risk, he emptied the glass before walking to the large bathroom. "Take as long as you need," Bond called after him.

Sigerson locked himself away for two hours. His things had been delivered and brought up to the room, and after selecting the least wretched garments, Bond had the rest of it washed and donated. He also had the hotel concierge order new clothes based on Sigerson's measurements, at the price of a hefty tip. They would be delivered tomorrow.

Bond also contacted Q to tell him the operation was successful and he didn't have to worry about Mallory breathing down his neck anymore. He didn't mention the pen.

Bond was confirming with Q that, yes, this was definitely the last of it, no one else was about to step in and take the reins, when Sigerson finally emerged. He was damp and freshly shaved, and his skin had a pinkish sheen to it as if he had scored it clean. The bruise on his jaw was starting to darken. He saw the boxes of things from his apartment, including his laptop and piles of meticulous notes, and dropped the pen in it. Bond took it as a final sign of trust.

Sigerson dropped into the chair next to Bond and stared out the window again. "They've gone through Moran's things," Bond said. "At first blush it looks like he truly was the last one. Turns out there's a lot of overlap between your team and mine." He watched Sigerson's reflection in the glass. He didn't react. "You don't have to be dead anymore. You can go back. If you want to."

Sigerson met his eyes in the glass. Never let it be said that Bond wasn't a perceptive man, because that one glance offered so many things, no longer hidden behind the multiple disguises Sigerson wore. He was lost and conflicted; lost because the one thing that had kept him going through all the hardships, defeating Moriarty once and for all, was done and he wasn't sure what would sustain him; conflicted because as much as he wanted to return home he wasn't sure if he would be wanted in return.

And this was the dangerous line that Bond walked, the line between what his duty and his judgement told him. His duty would be to leave Sigerson to his handlers and walk away. His judgement told him that Sigerson had serious issues that he would never, ever, willingly address. To let that man return to civilian life was like putting a grenade in a playground.

And while Q and M and many others may accuse him of barrelling in first and planning second, Bond knew how to wait, and how to draw prey towards him. His eyes were the wrong shade and his hair not quite the same colour and even the bullet wound was in the wrong shoulder, but it was close enough, and he could see Sigerson painting over those details.

"What made you return?" Sigerson asked quietly.

"Something I cared about was attacked." He paused, letting Sigerson absorb that, then asked, "What would it take for you?"

Sigerson turned from the window and looked him in the eyes. And wasn't that an eloquent look, Bond thought. Sod the rules. He very deliberately turned his mobile to silent and moved to stand over Sigerson. Any vulnerability had vanished, replaced with keen observation and expectation. Bond had to careful. The wrong word would close him off, and he _had_ to diffuse this. That was duty talking, even if his methods were unconventional. He leaned in close, bracing his hands on the armchair, and said, "I think he would forgive you."

Sigerson's eye widened and his mouth twisted, and for a moment Bond doubted himself, until Sigerson said, "You can't know that."

"No," Bond agreed, "but then, he'll only know as much as you tell him. I, on the other hand, know exactly how much blood is on your hands. I know the reasons behind it, and I know that I would have done the same thing. If I can condone your actions, then there is no reason he shouldn't." He leaned in close enough to smell the mint soap lingering on Sigerson's skin. "We died for different reasons, but our resurrections can be similar. We return to protect that without which we can't live. Even he would see that." Bond suddenly straightened, and saw how Sigerson adjusted from where he had been leaning into him. "There is nothing to forgive."

Sigerson refused to meet his eyes for the first time. "I do not think he would see it that way."

Time for the recklessness Q always made fun of. He grabbed Sigerson by both wrists and pulled him up. "Then prove it. Show me why he should forgive you."

From there it was a very short distance through the double doors to the bedroom.

Sigerson was fascinated with his scar, and examined both the entrance and exit wound minutely. "I've never seen a healed one before," he murmured. "You've done surgery on yourself." Sigerson in turn fascinated Bond. He switched between being extremely feral, laying down more bites than kisses, as if starved for touch, and being almost passive, reacting but never initiating. During those times Bond made certain that this wasn't about him, and all about Sigerson.

Sigerson slept like the dead. By the time he awoke, his new wardrobe had been delivered, along with breakfast (now lunch), and a request that Mr Sigerson contact a person called 'MH' as soon as possible. Bond took the liberty of searching through Sigerson's phone and sending a text saying, _Your brother is in safe hands. Prepare a flight to LHR for this afternoon. -007_

Bond barely said anything as Sigerson emerged and proceeded to eat his fill. He finally checked his phone and scowled. "I never said that I was going back."

"You didn't need to," Bond said, folding up his newspaper. "It's time to go home, Sherlock."


End file.
